


d e l i n Q U O

by thehomefucker



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehomefucker/pseuds/thehomefucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It bothered me everyday but I didn’t know what to do. That’s when I met a guy from Morphine...” Blood is eking out from beneath your nails. There’s salty panic in your throat. You might have lice with how your scalp is searing but lice don’t feel like fire and and there’s something creeping up your legs, though you can’t look, you won’t look, you’re rooted to the ground, so you talk faster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	d e l i n Q U O

You don’t know how Aoba got here but he isn't here to save you. No, he isn't here to help at all, he’s just another body in the faceless hell of limbs pushing around you. He moves like Aoba, yells like Aoba, asks you questions with that lilt like Aoba but he’s a fake, a clever show, same as the laughing ghouls with grimy faces cramping up Black Needle. You know because he stinks like them. Like rotting meat or stewing sun-baked maggots; like death, you think, because you can’t forget a smell like that. 

So you flee the bar where the phantoms shit-talk Rib but he follows, screaming your name. You’d have gotten further if your only exit wasn't blocked with blood, gushing from the walls.

“Mizuki!”

His eyes are tender.

He has eyes: golden, flooded with your soul’s desires. Like gilded icons, they drink you in with solemn sobriety, reflect your dream in glamorous gold.

They see you.

“Aoba,” you speak before you even know the words are crashing out. “Help me. Aoba.”

His fingers twitch. He does not reach for you. “What happened…?”

Muddy katakana drizzles from your ears.

“I don’t know what I should do...about Dry Juice.”

He sighs, sad. It is sad. You are sad.

“I was thinking how we could make it seem like family.”

You ignore the stirring under your boots. It’s getting very loud so you begin to shout.

“It bothered me everyday but I didn't know what to do. That’s when I met a guy from Morphine...” Blood is eking out from beneath your nails. There’s salty panic in your throat. You might have lice with how your scalp is searing but lice don’t feel like fire and and there’s something creeping up your legs, though you can’t look, you won’t look, you’re rooted to the ground, so you talk faster.

“But that was a huge mistake. Morphine wasn't what I thought it was. Aoba, you have to go, Morphine—”

Aoba's smiling.

He wasn't before but he is now.

You shriek as his teeth begin to bleed, dribbling grime down his chin. He takes a step towards you, madness coiling off him. Thundering. Blue. He jitters for a moment and re-adjusts, wearing Morphine’s jacket.

It’s been a while since you've seen such chaos in his eyes.

You want to look away but he has you. Grips you, envelops you into his chest where the Morphine mark gleams. A very dazzling gleam, almost more so than the sunspots screwing spirals in his pupils but not quite. Vomit curdles on your tongue. You feel little nibblings where he touches you and you know without looking there are weevils, thousands of them, hatching from his pores and moving onto you.

“Sly—”

He laughs his blood onto your face. It stings.

“Look Mizuki.”

You’d scream again if you had any breath.

“I've finally joined your team.”


End file.
